I sipped my wine as George's story further unraveled in my lap, like skeins of yarn draping themselves into a woven pile of reds and yellows, and hues of blues and purples, like emotions weaving through stories from years past. Once again, we resumed our evening affair with wine and a dimly lit room, filled with meager conversations and open hearts.
George informed me that although he once had feelings for a sweet and sassy, Sally Carry, he was unable to be more than her unrequited lover. Sally was promised to Mr. Fairfax, who won the war of love and captured the fair maiden before George could sweep in with his poetry and rescue her. So unbelievably romantic yet, terribly tragic in love, for even when George married Martha, he never forgot his love of Sally Carry.
After only a few short months of tobacco planting and farming, George was offered a handsomely rewarding position in the Army, by Colonel Edward Braddock, and it was just what he needed in order to take his thoughts off of his lost love, even though his mother threw a somewhat juvenile tantrum at his return to politics and wartime.
During this war with the French and Indians, George was able to somehow bring a community of soldiers to a solid foundation. Undisturbed by the prevalence of desertion, he created a regiment of men so strong in loyalty, that they overcame what was thought to be impossible tasks of fending off the enemies and taking new ground.
Our conversation lapsed as he chuckled with a distant memory, stirred by my mention of the nagging pain in my leg. I told him I needed a moment as my wine glass was empty and the best remedy for sore muscles, late at night, is a glass of warm red wine, and good company. He agreed and then proceeded to tell me of a few of his aches and pains of his yesteryears.
Apparently, his contraction of smallpox in his teenage years, proved to be his savior during the American Revolution, providing him with an immunity from contracting it later on in life. So many around him were passing into the afterlife due to the smallpox virus, and his life was spared. Not much after his escape from smallpox, he found himself suffering from both dysentery and tuberculosis, keeping him from his soldiers for nearly a year!
I must admit, that although I think it to be quite impressive that he was able to survive these terrible diseases, I thought perhaps, I could one-up him on the survival scale, laying on the line all the things which I too have survived. I don't want to say that I am in the habit of trying to one-up everyone - however, I am proud to say I have kicked more than my fair share of overbearing plagues as they were. In no particular order, here they are: Scarlet Fever, Meningitis, Pneumonia, severe Bronchitis, many Asthma attacks, and one scorpion sting to the big toe. Granted, I do believe I have had the opportunity for better health care than was available for him at the time, and yet, I still boast at my survival. Then, just when I thought I had the upper hand, he pulled out the trump card and said "Yes, I do believe you have presumably and delightfully escaped the grasp of death, but I, however, have escaped the bullets of war. I lost horses and perfectly good trousers to the ammunition from many an enemy, but never did I lose my head or my life."
After a good sigh on my part, and a coy wink on his, our conversation continued.
I was definitely surprised to hear that at age twenty-seven, George turned his back on the military, yet again, for what he thought was to be forever. He drank and gambled (but not to excess), and for sixteen years, lived a private life of marriage, farming and of subsequent normality. Since he married a widow, much responsibility came with his title of husband, as he became an overnight father to her two children. He went from being somewhat of a simple man, who was known for his success in military strategies and in planting and farming, to a man of stature who was now in charge of Martha's late husband's rather largess estate.
At this point, George glanced at the half-empty wine bottle and smiled. (I thought he was going to make some biting or silly remark on the fact that I seemed to be sipping through this wine rather quickly, but instead, he changed the topic completely.)
"Wine culture is of the utmost importance, Lauren, and yet, I had a time of it trying to initiate it into our Virginia lands" George said, with a flare about his hand gestures, as he scrutinized the label on my crimson colored wine bottle. He was asked to import European grapes for the start up of the new vineyards, however, as a planter who had laboriously studied the area and the climate and soil, he knew that what was indigenous to the Virginia soil grew best in that particular region, and henceforth, decided to do everything locally. He collected about two thousand cuttings from local vines, and made sure not to take samples that would ripen to early in the season.
I think I might have fallen for him if I had been young when he was young. Poetry, wine, his own vineyard, silly stories, six feet two inches in height, muscles binding his frame, large hands...and feet, blue-gray eyes seeing straight through me, high cheek bones, and thick red hair. Even closing my eyes and pausing to let my thoughts linger on his countenance, my heart flutters.
Oh, Mr. Washington, my love, why have so many centuries passed before we've gotten to know each other so deeply!
